


Toy on a Tether

by Mandibles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fear, Humiliation, Kinda, M/M, Post-Season 2, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek scares the piss out of Jackson. Literally. (And, then feels kind of, sort of guilty afterwards.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toy on a Tether

**Author's Note:**

> I SWEAR I'M WRITING SOMETHING NICE AND SWEET FOR JACKSON RIGHT NOW. Maybe a sequel to Baby Steps?
> 
> Ugh, I've been torturing him a lot lately.

Even as a wolf, Jackson still scares so easily. All Derek has to do is let his eyes flash red and Jackson freezes in place, eyes wide. Derek takes a step forward, Jackson takes two back. Derek cracks his neck, Jackson gulps. And when Derek finally lurches at him, the shift crackling under his skin, Jackson reacts on reflex.

Jackson hits the wall hard in his desperation to get away, his nails scrabbling futilely at the charred planks. His neck is bared in perfect submission, his Adam’s apple bobbing. But, Derek can’t bring himself to stop advancing, closer, closer, until he braces hands to the wall and leans into Jackson’s throat, nostrils flared as he takes in the tangy scent of fear. His mouth breaks open with a slow, wet sound, fangs elongated and lethal.

Then, he smells it: acrid, sharp, and distinctive like—oh.

Derek’s attention snaps down where, sure enough, the fabric bleeds dark between Jackson’s shaking legs and Jackson’s really  _pissing_  himself right there with a sob Derek can hear building in his throat. The reek of urine overwhelms everything. There’s no fear or humiliation or heartbeats or breaths; there’s only that wet dark trail creeping down Jackson’s pants leg and the quiet sound of Derek’s brain fizzling to a halt before disintegrating from existence altogether.

That sob finally cracks Jackson’s vocal chords and Derek finds himself answering with a low growl. Jackson goes stiff at the first, faint scrape of teeth at his pulse point. He tries words then, but it comes out garbled and rasped and pitiful and goes right to Derek’s dick. Which, Derek realizes with mute horror, is hard and getting harder. Had he been hard the entire time?

“Don’t,” Jackson finally wheezes, his humiliation palpable. “Derek, please—please don’t kill me—I don’t want to—”

Derek exhales deeply, disturbs the hair at Jackson’s nape. “You really think I’d eat a meal that’s just pissed itself like a,” he pauses, huffs a laugh, “like a submissive bitch?” He gives Jackson’s face a quick once over—pinched in terror, bright blue wolf eyes trained to the side, mouth dropped open to house his pants—before he pushes away and lets Jackson slide down to the floor into the rancid wet that’s begun to pool at his feet.

Jackson looks up at him, tears streaking down his cheeks. This is the real Jackson, Derek has learned over the past few weeks after the face off with Gerard: just a petrified little wide-eyed boy, cradling his knees in his own piss. There’s only a small pang of guilt, because Derek knows he’s contributed to the tortured look in his eye as much as Jackson himself has. He should have seen it there before he gave him the bite that night, before he scrambled after Jackson in the forest, before he caught him, bit him deep in his hip, and let him loose so he could chase him more.

Like he was a toy on a tether.

Derek is torn between pity and disgust, the latter of which is more turned to himself than anything. Both are difficult— _impossible_ —for Derek to admit, so he settles on neither.

“Get out.”

Jackson’s mouth tries to form words—maybe something like  _what_  or  _why_  or  _where_ , because he’s ‘dead,’ there’s nowhere for him to go, and there’s an Alpha pack out there that’s clued in on that Jackson’s borderline Omega, but—

“I’m not going to repeat myself.”

That has Jackson scrambling to his feet and racing out with an awkward lope, nearly crashing into Peter in the doorway. Peter who raises his brow questioningly at the obvious bulge in Derek’s jeans and the stink of piss and arousal.

“Do I want to—”

“No.”

“You know you should—”

“Shut up.”

A smirk splits Peter’s lips and Derek barely restrains his snarl as he shoves past him. Then, he’s breaking out into run after Jackson, because as much as he hates him—hates himself—Jackson, for now, is pack and Derek is his Alpha. It’s as simple as that.

(And, the idea of having Jackson’s blood on his hands for what could be the hundredth time makes his throat constrict.) 


End file.
